


Red Verbena

by bluedotr



Category: My Candy Love
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fairytale crossover, Fluff, Rescue, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 08:30:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21504928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedotr/pseuds/bluedotr
Summary: His name was Lysander, and he tried to ground it in the things that marked him stolen, human: the strength of his jaw, the darkened ends of his eyebrows. Everything else – his pale skin, his mismatched eyes, the white-silver-ombre hair – made him too Fae-like, too close to his captors, where back in human lands, it had marked him otherworldly, beautiful.On good days, he could pretend his name would lead him back to home.
Relationships: Candy/Lysander (My Candy Love)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Red Verbena

The Fae held out a goblet of gold to him, and he could not refuse.

It was a scene he had seen numerous times, cocooned in the Bower’s shaded foliage. How many times had Fae magic stamped out the dread, and left him a numbness, a sense of security? How many times had he seen the tribute’s face go pale, glassy, their eyes fixed on the goblet before them, until the air around them turned heavy, oppressive, and they drank?

He could hear someone screaming at him, reminding him of the tithes before, their fates; it screamed at him no, don’t, you know what is coming.

He watched the Fae Monarch’s eyes turn from dream-like grey to pinpricks of ice, magic curling into his heart, as though to crush it –

He drank, and the dissipating magic was a relief.

⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭

His name was Lysander, he told himself, and he clung onto it like it meant something.

He had a father, a mother, a brother, and his brother had a fiancée. He thought he might be human still, past all the magics that trapped him with the Fae. Would all those years of living here, eating their food, taking their drink have changed him? Time and Fae magic robbed his home from him, like so many other past mortal delights and memories he cherished. In the fugue of hazy thoughts and muddled memories, his name remained the only constant.

He repeated his name like a mantra as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, disbelieving the creature that stared back in return. His name was Lysander, and he tried to ground it in the things that marked him stolen, human: the strength of his jaw, the darkened ends of his eyebrows. Everything else – his pale skin, his mismatched eyes, the white-silver-ombre hair – made him too Fae-like, too close to his captors, where back in human lands, it had marked him otherworldly, beautiful.

On good days, he could pretend his name would lead him back to home.

⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭

A week after he drank from the goblet, Lysander was summoned to a forest clearing, one he barely recognised. He hadn’t returned to it in – years? Decades? How long had he been in the Fae world now?

All he recognised was the wizened tree: a tall, proud oak, bark rough to the touch, vines creeping around it and its flowers beginning to bud. It would be spring soon, and it marked another year of being spirited away.

The girl who had called him looked as started as he felt. It was stark contrast to the placid blankness the other enthralled humans had, their vacant smiles and faraway looks.

“Where did you come from?” she asked, voice full of wonder. “There was no one in the forest when I came.”

“You called for me, so here I am.”

“I didn’t! Call for you, I mean. I was picking herbs in this part of the woods when -”

Her eyes flickered to the enchanted herbs in her hand, and Lysander saw understanding dawn. Her smile turned sheepish, and she held out the herbs to him like a peace offering.

“Was it the herbs? I didn’t think picking them would summon you – your kind – I didn’t think you existed…!”

As she spoke, Fae magic whispered to him, honeyed words sliding into his skull.

Take her, he heard them say. Take her, for she must pay the price.

She’s innocent, he replied. She’s innocent, and didn’t know – we’ve – you’ve been forgotten, your powers waning –

No one’s ever innocent, the Fae magic whispered, and he felt his limbs jerk forward, pulled on invisible strings.

“Hey, are – are you alright?”

Her voice cut through the encroaching numbness that came with Fae magic. Lysander blinked, his mind clearing for a moment, and dragged air into his lungs.

“You need to go,” he gasped out, even as Fae magic began to smother him. “You need to go, I -”

One moment, all he could register was the need to get the girl away; then, Fae magic roared into his ears, discordant, braying. The strain must’ve been too much, for his knees had buckled and he collapsed, sight beginning to blur.

Funny, he thought as unconsciousness took him. He’d never done fought back like that before.

⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭

Lysander found himself dreaming. He saw hills and fields take shape from the blurred landscape, a distinctive weathervane crown a farmhouse’s roof, the building landing softly on the ground. He knew this place like the back of his hand, because this – this was –

“Lysander! Lys-baby, we’re back!”

A head of silver hair barrelled into him, knocking air out of his lungs, and her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. She looked up, and he saw bright gold-yellow eyes, elegant features turned up in a beaming smile.

“Look at you! How come you haven’t aged a day? Leigh and I were in the city and I can’t tell you -”

“Let Lysander breathe, Rosalya.”

His brother Leigh stepped into view, clad in his usual purple coat and black pants, a small but sincere smile on his face. His hug was warm, solid, and Lysander almost forgot he was dreaming.

People startled when they discovered Leigh and Lysander were brothers. Lysander didn’t blame them: where he was silver-haired, Leigh was dark-haired; he lived on a farm, tending to the sheep, the crops; Leigh ran a tailor shop that was sought after by fashionable society.

Yet they both had their father’s nose and stature, their mother’s eyes, and their father’s height. But where Leigh was softer, hard labour had given Lysander leaner, sharper angles, a strength to his jaw.

Leigh was long gone now. He was gone when the Fae spirited Lysander away. Had he married Rosalya, when Lysander disappeared? Did they have children? Did that relationship wither away, unable to bear the trio of tragedies? Or were they finally free of their brother, the one left behind when his parents died?

Once, he would have pushed those thoughts away, because Leigh had needed Lysander as much as Lysander needed him – to be strong, grounded, rooted. It gave Lysander the will to carry on when his literary hopes were tossed aside upon their parents’ passing; it gave Leigh the confidence and resilience to tailor in a city where class and status were everything.

But Leigh wasn’t here now, so those poisonous thoughts washed over him as he listened to dream-Leigh and dream-Rosalya babble. It made Leigh’s coat foppish; it made Rosalya’s warmth cold, made him remember how Rosalya chose Leigh over him; it made the charming country path feel grimy, backwards.

Then the dream was collapsing around him – house crumbling, fields withering from green to grey. Leigh and Rosalya’s beaming smiles stretched into eerie grins, laughter turning into jeers. Lysander reached out to grab them, but the ground beneath him gave. He fell again, through white to black to gold, and the gold shattered around him.

⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭

He woke to soft strains of lyre music, and a breeze rustled through lush greenery. With that, Lysander knew he was back in the Bower. Before he could react, gilded sparks danced across his skin as magic crackled in the air, a gentle, petal-soft hand grasping his. He did not need to look to know who it was.

“My poor, delicate Lysander,” the Fae Monarch murmured, smelling sweetly of spice and winter. “Why did you collapse in your clearing? Did a mortal try to hurt you?”

The Fae magic hissed at him, trying to force his confession – that he’d denied the Fae what was rightfully theirs. But whether it was from the past exertions or his foreign, newfound will to fight, he managed a broken, croaking sound.

“Hush, sweetling. You need rest.” The Monarch’s voice was soothing, their expression was gentle, fond. “Shall I have you moved to my wing in the Bower? Would you like that?”

Lysander could not respond, but whatever the Monarch saw, it was enough to please them. They leant in, a rustle of silks, and pressed cool lips to his forehead.

“Make sure he rests well,” the Monarch instructed. “See that he is not unduly strained. Especially…”

The Monarch’s face went blank, eyes distant, their features stone cold. Then, as quickly as it had come, the features slid back into sadness, mourning.

“… I shall miss you, my darling. I think I shall.”

With that, the Monarch was gone, trailing perfume and sparkling light in their wake. The attendants helped him drink a potion, and he fell into blessed, dreamless sleep.

⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭

When Lysander was moved to the Monarch’s wing, it was a return to the first months of his arrival at the Bower: attendants at every corner, catering to his every need, the Fae and the enthralled humans alike fawning over him, asking after his well-being.

He remembered all too well those early days of bliss, when the Monarch had taken his hand and led him through verdant paths to the Bower. He’d been a farmer then, too far from Leigh and Rosalya, alone to make sense of his frustrated literary ambitions and how trapped he’d felt in the countryside. The Monarch found him in his loneliness on a rainy day, when Lysander strayed too far on one of his woodland hikes, and spirited him away from the mortal world.

Those days had been filled with fruits and ambrosia and laughter, Fae skipping under enchanted lights strung from vines and dangling roots. The air was perfumed with fresh spring flowers, and spices that Lysander had never known. There were other humans in the Bower with him too, but he thought they seemed beautiful, at peace. He hadn’t noticed the Fae magic then, how it weighed them down when the Monarch needed it, how it smothered their thoughts so they didn’t think anymore.

Even now, on the cusp of the sacrifice, as the Monarch kept him by their side, he could feel the Fae magic humming in the back of his head, infusing his thoughts with a sleepy contentment. Because this was enough – this should be enough, and he ought to be honoured he was by the Monarch’s side again, at the end of all things.

No, I shouldn’t, the lucid part of him told himself. They’re sacrificing me as a tithe, and –

And you shouldn’t think of these things, Lysander. The Monarch wants you close, and treasures you still. Isn’t that enough?

⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭

The next time Lysander was summoned, he had the vaguest sensation of the ground giving out beneath him, a swirl of colours swimming before his eyes. Then he was back at the clearing again, in front of the tree. The Fae magic reacted before he did, shrieking loudly in his head and receding. It left his thoughts clear as day, no longer feeling like a puppet on strings, and he looked up.

The same girl stood before him with a cheeky grin, a garland of red verbena flowers on her head, and waved a hello.

“Why – why are you here?” Lysander asked, his voice scratchy. “Were you summoning me again?”

“Yes.” Her answer was guileless, cheerful, but he could see her uncertainty in the way she held herself, arms crossed over her chest despite her apparent ease. “I wanted to see if it was a fluke last time.”

“Why?” He blurted out the question before he could stop himself. “You shouldn’t be toying with this, it’s - ”

Look where it got me, he wanted to tell them. He wanted to tell them of how he’d brought bread with him on his woodland walks to see the Fae, seeking literary inspiration, but didn’t protect himself with iron or salt because he didn’t want to scare them; he wanted to tell them how the Monarch loved his beauty, invited him to the Fae Court, to leave his troubles behind, and now he was due to be –

Sacrificed. The clarity of that thought startled him – in the Bower, when his mind brushed against his impending doom, magic would press against his temples until all he could feel was hazy contentment, and remember how blessed he was to be by the Monarch’s side.

“I know.” The girl was still smiling, but Lysander saw the twist in it. Pity? Sadness? Or sympathy?

“I read up about it, you know,” she continued. “After I – ah, accidentally summoned you. But I wanted to see you again.”

“You don’t have to. I’m not worth risking the Fae to see.”

She stared at him, eyes earnest. When had someone last looked at him like that? Like he mattered, like he was –

“I know, I shouldn’t,” she said, interrupting his thoughts and scuffing her toe. “But – you tried to get me away, right? Told me to run. It counts for something.”

The magic was silent in his mind. All that was left was him and his thoughts, and feeling strangely lighter, more aware, less detached. They stood in silence in the clearing, sunlight filtering in through the leaves. Here, in the mortal world, the sun too bright, warm, but he’d forgotten how much he had missed this.

“So… what did you need from me?”

“Oh. Oh!” She started. “I – I didn’t think that far, actually. My thought process was – wear a red verbena wreath, pick some herbs in this patch, and - hope for the best.”

“You shouldn’t go picking herbs willy-nilly in this part of the woods.” The words slipped out of him, unbidden. She stared at him a beat longer, then started to laugh, bright, too loud, but no less musical. He felt his heart stutter in his chest, his cheeks begin to go pink. What was…?

“You look so offended right now,” she told him, and Lysander wished for a mirror so he could see what amused her so. “I didn’t mean it! But I don’t know what to… do at this point.”

She lapsed into silence again, and Lysander wondered when the Fae magic would come back to reclaim him. It would be lovely, to be freed by a simple wreath of verbena, but…

“I guess… you could tell me about you, and I can tell you what you’ve missed? Judging by your appearance, you look like you’re a bit out of touch now.”

Lysander watched as she sat down under the tree, watching him, as though expecting him to follow suit. The Fae magic was quiet, his thoughts still clear, his heart hammering in his chest at how free he felt. How long would he have to relish it? He’d taken the Monarch’s offer to leave this world behind when they gave it to him – and now there was a stranger, offering a moment of what he’d lost.

So he took this chance too, to listen, to ask questions, and to ignore the way his heart ached at how much time had passed since his abduction.

⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭

The Fae magic eventually did reclaim him, but it did not compel him to reach for the girl to take her. Instead, he returned to the Bower, to the collective shrieking of Fae attendants.

“Verbena!” they cried, fluttering away from him, as though wounded. “Your Majesty, he reeks of verbena!”

The Monarch hissed from their throne, and Lysander saw their beauty fall away, visage turning ashen, grey, their elegant mouth twisting to show rows of jagged teeth. Around them, the Bower grew dimmer, darker, its shadows growing longer, vines twisting above them. In that moment, Lysander thought he saw thorns flickering, the tree leaves becoming overgrown, roots beginning to choke the columns that held the Bower up.

“Who was it?” the Monarch demanded, voice harsh and shrill. “Who dares? What did they want?”

He waited for the Fae magic to hiss, to compel him to tell the truth, of what he’d discussed with the girl: his story, his hopes, his dreams; her life, how she ended up in the forest, why she was there. But whether it was because of verbena still hovering around him like a protective shroud, or because the Fae magic was still gathering strength to re-assert itself, there was – nothing. Just a curious silence in his mind, where he was free to think for himself.

“Answers, Your Majesty,” he answered. “They wanted answers.”

“Did you give it to them? About the Fae court?”

“I did not. They did not – could not compel me to.”

There was a collective exhale, and as suddenly as it came, the Bower was bright again, the air lighter, the sunlight glowing and warm again, the greenery delicate, verdant, as though kept in perpetual spring. The Monarch still looked ashen, but their lips were pressed firmly together, eyes flitting around.

“You need to bathe, sweetling.” Their voice was calm, melodic again, an edge of concern seeping around it. “It will help strip whatever foul herb the mortal used on you – attendants! Take him away.”

The enthralled humans gathered around him, faces a mien of concern, but with eerie, identical expressions: drawn eyebrows, worried eyes, gentle hands, murmuring. As they led him away from the Monarch, he saw them call another Fae to them, say something in the Fae’s ear. A strange apprehension fell over him, but now, he could feel the tendrils of Fae magic creeping in, chasing the doubt away, leaving him numb again.

⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭

The bath left Lysander scrubbed raw and perfumed in another strange spice, but he had no time to identify the smell. Instead, the attendants swept him away, where another Fae awaited him, ethereal in their beauty, save for a hard set to their jaw that sent a shiver down his spine.

“The Monarch has instructed you to remain here,” the Fae intoned, solemn, heavy. “Their Majesty will not risk you leaving again before the date.”

“The date?” Lysander echoed. The Fae smiled, and at first glance it was gentle, kind, but he could see its hardness, its glee.

“The tithe, sweetling. It will be in two weeks’ time, after all. The Bower depends on the tithe so the Bower can continue – you couldn’t have forgotten, surely?”

⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭

The Fae had left Lysander alone afterwards – close to the Monarch’s wing, where they could visit him as they wished. He had all he wanted there: books, papers, notes, sweet-smelling drinks and possets, and soft music hanging in the air. In here, the Fae magic was stronger than he’d ever known, sometimes leaving him staring vacantly with ink dripping from his pen until he realised he had been meaning to… do what, exactly?

They had warded this room too. He could see the golden glyphs slyly hidden among the branches and columns, and barely glowing so he could almost forget. Almost, because whenever he attempted to take a step out of the room, over its threshold, the glyphs glowed with such ferocity and wracked him with pain, leaving him doubled over, gasping, trying to catch his breath.

He could not physically leave – the Fae would not let him, not with the sacrifice looming so close.

You were complicit, and you thought you were safe, the traitorous voice in his head told him, and he cast his mind further back, to watching the past tributes be clad in ceremonial armour, pressed onto a milk-white steed, and then –

He closed his eyes, and thought of Leigh, of Rosalya, of the mortal world, and how precious little time he had left. He thought of the strange girl, and his heart ached a little, before Fae magic quashed it and sent his mind into a fugue again.

⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭

“You know how hard it was to summon you this time?”

Lysander bolted upright, heart hammering in his chest as he wildly looked around. A few metres away from him, the girl sat in a cotton dress, cross-legged under the tree, herbs in their hands.

“I – what did you do?”

“I wanted to see you,” she said simply, lips easing into a smile. “It’s silly I know, I’ve only really met you – what, twice? But then…” They bit their lip, as though trying to find the words for it.

He reached for them, and there was a shriek of protest from the Fae magic as he took note of what lay on their head: a wreath of red verbena, like last time. The last time they met, the two had spent as much time as they could together, a perfect memory he clung on to, to remind himself he was mortal, real.

“… I - I don’t know if you want to see me again, and if I summoned you when you didn’t want to I - ”

“I do.” The words left him in a rush. “I – I would, but I can’t stay for long.”

Concern flashed across her face, but it there was none of that unnatural synchronicity from the enthralled. His heart was in his throat, his head growing light, from this relief – of seeing someone sincere, someone who cared.

“Why not?”

“The Fae don’t want me to leave.”

“You’re not Fae?” Her brow furrowed.

“No, I’m not. I’m – human. I still am, I think.”

She nodded, slow, contemplative.

“Is that why they don’t want you to leave? Because you’re human and they like to keep pretty humans close?”

“They will sacrifice me on All Hallow’s Eve.”

“They – what?”

Her voice was a shriek then, and he winced at the noise. She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes darting around the clearing as though to check for eavesdroppers, then leant in closer.

“They want to sacrifice you?”

“Yes. They do it once every seven years.” Lysander’s voice was faraway, wooden even to his ears. “They sacrifice a human tithe, and this year, they chose me.”

“But – why?”

“So the Faerie Court can live on. I think.”

Her mouth opened and shut a few times, struck dumb at hearing the news. A hand closed over his, and her warmth seeped into him, chasing away the dread.

“… They can’t do that,” she said, voice indignant. “Why can’t they sacrifice one of theirs instead?”

“Theirs?”

“Their Fae! There’s plenty of them. Right? And Fae are more powerful, so if they need something to sustain their Court…”

“They’ve made their choice. It will be me in a week’s time.”

The two were sitting close to each other, his hand in hers, her face twisted in fury. He wondered if she could feel his pulse thrumming in his veins, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest.

“Right,” she said finally, fingers interlaced with his. “How do we stop that?”

⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭

A Fae attendant was smiling at him when he awoke a week later, presenting him with a perfectly tailored doublet and pants, showing all of their teeth.

“Come now, sweetling, it is time. Any later, and we will miss All Hallow’s Eve.”

Those words were like a cold bucket of water thrown over his head. He wondered if he looked as pale as he felt, but the Fae did not seem to notice or care.

“Don’t keep the Monarch waiting,” the Fae attendant told him, and there was a bite to their voice, their overlarge eyes flashing with impatience. “You wouldn’t want to be the one to damn the Fae Court.”

“I - ”

“Oh, calm yourself, sweetling. Here, I have just the thing for you to see you off.”

They didn’t give him a choice to drink the proffered goblet or not. One moment his mind was still coming up with a litany of protests; the next, Fae magic swarmed into his head, and he watched his hand grasp the goblet, lift it to his mouth, and swallow the contents whole.

⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭⸭

From then on, he couldn’t move his limbs, couldn’t speak of his own will, couldn’t stop smiling. That much he knew, because he glimpsed his face transfixed in a vapid, content smile in a mirror as he was led away. He couldn’t even turn his head, not when the Fae had a death-grip on his wrist, dressed him in bell-trimmed armour, chiming with every step. He was no longer in control of his body – it was the Fae’s plaything now..

He would scream, but the magic robbed him of that, his body seating itself on an ethereal milk-white steed, ~~but~~ too translucent to be real. His breaths grew harder, shorter, but his body kept moving, and the Fae surrounded him, chattering amongst themselves. The enthralled humans had gathered to see him off, tossing flower petals around the troop like it was another procession, another festival.

In this state, Lysander was hyper-aware of everything around him, even as his body sat upright on the cantering horse, silent, smiling, Fae banners flying overhead in the dusky light. How the cantering was too loud, how the rough leather reins scraped against his bare left hand, how the night-insects were beginning to emerge from their day slumber to sing in the night. The air was sweet with rain, a full, white moon peeking over the clouds. It would have brought him peace on any other day, and yet…

He felt the Faerie troop slow as they reached the crossroads, and someone shouted. His stomach swooped as something, _someone_ dragged him bodily from the milk-white steed, the Fae troop’s quiet chattering turning into outraged shrieks and shrill anger. A Fae was calling out he’d fallen – one of the Attendants, perhaps, and he felt the Fae magic gather, force itself beneath his skin, pushing into his veins, setting him aflame as it contorted his limbs into a more compact form, stretching his skin.

Don’t let go, he thought, even as he felt fur begin to break through his skin. Don’t let go, no matter what, please, like what we said –

A pair of familiar, human arms were clinging on for dear life even as Fae magic made to shake her off. Lysander heard the air crackle with magic, with thunder, the distant screams of angered Fae echoing in his skull. Then he was shrinking again, claws erupting through his knuckles, and a mane beginning to sprout from his neck, roaring wildly into the night. Those four sets of claws tried to scratch his rescuer, snapping maw inches from their face, and yet, they still held on tight.

“You can’t have him, you friggin’ magical bastards - ”

In any other state, Lysander would have laughed, but he was shrinking again, his body growing as heavy as metal, trapping him. No limbs now, just his mind and his consciousness caged in an iron ingot, and he felt his skin begin to burn, hotter than any fire he’d felt before, hotter than the sun, and now he was about to combust, die from these flames that the Fae had cursed him with –

He felt himself plunge headfirst into icy cold water, and it doused whatever had set him aflame. He was in his human form again, free to move, his limbs, his mind clearer than it had been in years. He felt like he could breathe again, the pressure no longer in his skull. Someone gently lifted him out of the well, wrapped him in a rich, woollen green blanket (a mantle, he reminded himself), and…

“You!”

The Fae Monarch’s tone was harsh, a thousand voices screaming at once, and Lysander was torn between throwing himself in front of the girl and cowering behind her. But she stood fast, lips curled into a snarl, their body a physical barrier between him and the irate Fae Monarch, fists clenched.

“I brought an iron spike,” she told the Monarch. “And I will run you through with it if you come closer.”

The Fae Monarch hissed, and Lysander saw she was clutching a sharp, pointy iron stake in her hand, knuckles white in the dark. It looked as though it’d been wrenched from an iron-wrought gate, but it kept them both safe.

Around them, the Fae troop held their breaths, and Lysander had never felt so small with a green mantle wrapped around him. Even as the Fae Monarch loomed closer, fangs bared, their face older, more terrible than Lysander had ever remembered them being, the girl didn’t falter, didn’t waver, grip tight on the spike.

“… I wish I’d gouged his eyes and heart out instead,” the Monarch spat finally. “You will suffer the fruits of your folly, girl.”

There was another rumble of thunder, lightning splitting the sky – and it was just the two of them by a well. All that was left were the night-insects chirping out their songs.

She began to laugh, slumping down next to Lysander, leaning her head on his shoulder, their warmth seeping into his cold skin. He began to laugh too, hand finding hers and clutching on to it. It rang out in the quiet forest, piercing the night, but Lysander felt at peace. He was free, free, and he could be home.

“Are you - ” The girl glanced at him. “You are!”

“Am I – what?”

“You’re naked!” she declared. “I should’ve brought you clothes – how on earth am I going to get you back to the town, this is going to look so strange I can’t begin to imagine…”

“You rescued me.” Lysander’s voice was shaky to his own ears, but being able to talk, to stand, to move, without feeling the tug of Fae magic was liberating. “That’s all that matters.”

She paused in her fretting, looking at Lysander as he stood up. A small smile spread across her face, even as she tugged the green mantle further closed and wrapped a leather belt around his waist.

“Yeah. Yeah! Let’s get you back to – well, my home first, and then we can decide what we want to do next.”

Lysander took her hand again, and began their walk back. If he were lucky, he would be able to find his brother and Rosalya again – he had been gone years, but not enough for them to have reasonably passed from the living. With her by his side, he couldn’t imagine worrying about what would come after he’d been set free.

**Author's Note:**

> As you've probably guessed, this was written for the Beemoov Zine by Lavendears! Our brief was a fairytale crossover with any Beemoov character, so I picked the Ballad of Tam Lin. I wanted to put this into my MCL Oneshots series, but it was a little too long, and I figured it'd be good to put this in here. It's another Lysander fic, because I miss him loads... I've got a few more ideas floating around, but maybe after I finish what I need to do. Enjoy?
> 
> (Also, why red verbena? Red verbena isn't that well known as a fairy-repellent or protection, but it worked, and I rather liked the idea of a flower wreath that protected you from faeries...)


End file.
